


Brunnera and Poppy

by Ryu_No_Joou



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Minor Game Spoilers, idiots to lovers, like really you two how blind are you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryu_No_Joou/pseuds/Ryu_No_Joou
Summary: Arthur has hanahaki. John has hanahaki. What are the odds? (Summaries are not my strong point.)
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 58





	Brunnera and Poppy

**Author's Note:**

> _Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear. _
> 
> _—fanlore.org_

It started with just a little cough. Nothing major, nothing unusual. Hell, if he hadn’t picked up a cold while in Colter, Arthur would’ve been mighty surprised. Lots of folk were sneezing and sniffling. Even little Jack had a touch of a cold, though you wouldn’t know it to see him running around Horseshoe Overlook, exploring their new home.

“You okay, Arthur?” Hosea asked over the edge of his paper.

“Sure, Hosea. Just a bit of a cold, I reckon.”

“Those mountains were hard on everyone,” the older man said sympathetically. “I think Strauss has a few cough syrups in his supplies, if you need any.”

“Thanks.” Arthur wouldn’t take them, though. Cough syrups always made him sleepy, and there was just too much to do. He returned to his chores, carrying hay bales and chopping wood, figuring the cough would go away in a few days.

Not that he noticed it much. Building up the camp and making sure everyone had enough provisions was hard work, and on top of that there were so many other things to do. They needed money, and Dutch had Arthur running errands as well. There were connections to be made, leads to sniff out. Sean was still being held in Blackwater and Micah had somehow gotten himself locked up in Strawberry, they needed to be freed. 

Micah, the law could have, Arthur thought bitterly as he removed a freshly-killed deer off his horse and carried it over to Pearson’s wagon. He coughed slightly but didn’t even notice, his mind focused on the outlaw he didn’t trust. The others in the gang had proved their worth, but Micah… he seemed too much like a snake.

Even John had redeemed himself. It had taken awhile, but doing chores, going on jobs, bringing in leads, he slowly made up for it.

When John came back to them after a year away, shamefaced but looking and acting more mature, Arthur had been furious with him, and Abigail too. Dutch, however, had welcomed John back with open arms. For weeks Arthur had refused to speak to him. Until he and Abigail fell to discussing it one night as they sat by the fire, watching Jack play with some little carved animals Hosea had found for him. 

“He’s been real good to us,” Abigail said softly. “Ashamed, but… we talked. A lot. I think it actually…. did him some good to be alone. He’s grown up. Not much,” she added with a chuckle, seeing the disbelieving look on Arthur’s face, “but a little. He told me he was sorry for putting me in this position. Told me he’d help raise Jack as best he could. And we… we don’t love each other. You know my dealings with men were only to survive.”

Arthur nodded, he knew Abigail had a soft spot for other women.

“I think he and I can be friends again, and you and he as well. I know he misses you. You’re his best friend, and he looks up to you. I’m not trying to force you or anything. But… think about it, please, Arthur?”

Such a gentle plea had not gone unheeded. Somehow, John’s betrayal had hurt even worse than Mary’s, when she had told him bitterly that she knew Arthur would never change, that he’d never fit in with her family. But with John, there was a need to reconcile. A desire to repair his friendship with the man who had once been a scared little boy shivering in the crook of Arthur’s arm as the gang galloped away from that goddamned hick town where people thought hanging a starving orphan was justice. So Arthur had tried. And it was impossible to miss the way John’s eyes lit up when Arthur said his name in a friendly tone. 

Then came the flight from Blackwater and the desperate winter in Colter. John had nearly died. And that… that made Arthur feel funny inside. A strange twinge in his chest. They’d lost Davey, Mac, and Jenny, and though Arthur missed them, he hadn’t felt that pang of fear over their deaths. Nor had he felt the same rush of relief he’d felt upon seeing John again when Micah had finally rode back to camp. 

“Good job, Mr. Morgan.” Pearson smiled widely at the deer carcass. “Lovely, should be enough here for a few nights!”

“Easy on the salt this time,” Arthur teased, then headed for the rain barrel to wash the blood off his hands. He coughed again, but didn’t notice the red flower petal that fell from his lips and was caught by the breeze, carried away from camp. 

—

“Hey, Abby? What do you know about flowers?”

Abigail looked up at John, distracted from her sewing. “What?” she asked in confusion. You never could tell what - if anything - was going on in that man’s head.

John sat down beside her and opened his palm. A small, blue flower petal sat in his hand.

“I’ve never seen one like that before. What a pretty blue!” Abigail bent over to look more closely at it. “Where did you find this?”

“Oh, uh… over on the mountain,” John said. 

“You should ask Arthur. He knows a lot more about flowers than I do.” Abigail reached for it but John’s fingers curled around it protectively. She looked up at him sharply, and he turned away. “Where’d you really find it?” she asked him skeptically.

“I told you, over on the mountain…” John cut himself off with a cough, his hand going up to cover his mouth. But not fast enough. Tiny blue petals fluttered from his throat, and her eyes widened in shock. 

“John!” she cried, then looked around nervously. No one was paying them any attention, but she lowered her voice. “John… how long has this been going on?” she hissed at him. She knew instantly what it was. ‘Hanahaki Disease’, known in the brothels as ‘Whore’s Affliction’, so named because of the amount of working girls who had succumbed to it as they pined over a man they could never hope to have for their own. Abigail had seen one of the girls at the last brothel she worked at die of it, coughing up the prettiest yellow petals she’d claimed were the same color as ‘dear Matthew’s hair’. After two weeks of shedding fully-formed blossoms, she had died. Abigail heard later from the madam that the flowers’ roots had grown up from her lungs into her throat and she had no longer been able to breathe.

John looked down at his feet. “Dunno. The petals only started this morning.”

“How. _Long_?”

“Since Colter!” he blurted. “Since I got off that goddamn mountain. Since I nearly got eaten alive.”

“Oh, John…” Abigail touched his wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not mad at me for once?” he asked, giving her a sad version of the crooked smile he’d adopted since his face had been torn open. 

“No. Not for this.” She pushed his long hair behind his ears. “We’ve talked about this so often. I know you aren’t in love with me… and… I… well…”

“Mrs. Adler will come around,” John murmured. “She’s grieving. You take good care of her though, I know she sees it.”

“Who is it?” Abigail asked him tenderly. “Do you know who she is?”

“I… I think so.” John looked around quickly, but no one was within earshot except for Jack, and he was too involved with the little wooden soldiers Lenny had whittled for him. He lowered his voice even more, anyway. “It… it ain’t a she.”

“You love who you love, John. I won’t judge.”

“It’s…. it’s Arthur,” he whispered, looking terrified. “I… I started coughing the day after he and Javier came to rescue me…. I think.”

Abigail sighed, remembering. “Yes. You did cough in your sleep a lot.”

“And today… this.” He looked down at the blue petal in his hand. “I know I’m an idiot… but I saw it right off. Same blue as Arthur’s favorite shirt. Same as his eyes. But I can’t tell him, Abby! I can’t. He’d… he’d hate me.” He looked panicked. “What… what am I going to do?”

“I… I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “But… I’ll help you. If I can. We’ll… you can’t… you can’t die,” she whispered. “You can’t… Jack…”

“I know,” he said, a bit angrily. Then, subdued: “I know.” He looked down again at the delicate blue petal in his hand. 

—

Arthur coughed. A red petal drifted from his lips to float on the surface of the water in his shaving bowl. He stared at it, dread rising in him. Despite the warm sun on his back, he felt chilled to the bone. 

It couldn’t be. It was just a cold. Not… not this.

Was it Mary? After seeing her again after so long? It couldn’t be. He’d felt only tired resignation after receiving her letter, and after dealing with her and Jaime. Not heartbreak. And Mary had only contacted him recently… but the cough had been going on since… well, since Colter. 

What had happened in Colter? Nothing he could remember that would cause this. Arthur wiped his face hastily, his heart pounding in his chest. A doctor. He had to see a doctor. Maybe this was all an accident. Quickly, almost frantically, he pushed his hat on and grabbed his satchel before striding quickly to his horse. He swung up onto Ranger’s back.

“Hey, Arthur!” He looked over his shoulder to see John approaching. “I wanted to see if you’d - hey, where are you-”

“Sorry. Gotta go into town,” Arthur cut him off. “I’ll be back.” He spurred Ranger into a trot, leaving John to look after him with his smile dying on his face.

He rode hard, his throat dry and itchy, occasionally coughing up red petals. Once in Valentine, he ignored the people who shouted after him to slow down. He jumped off Ranger and burst into the doctor’s office, the startled physician looking up from his papers. 

“G-good morning sir, how can I…”

“Help me, doc.” Arthur coughed again, a few bright petals falling into his palm. He held them out, almost beseechingly. “Please… tell me this ain’t… this ain’t what I think.”

The doctor was already shaking his head. “Hanahaki disease. You’re the second I’ve seen this week.” He gestured for Arthur to sit down, holding out a napkin for the gunslinger to lay the petals on. He looked at them closely, before putting on his stethoscope and instructing Arthur to take deep breaths. “Hmm… again. Yes… I see.” Sighing, he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Doc, it can’t be,” Arthur rasped. “A cold, the flu, _ tuberculosis_ for God’s sake…”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor repeated. “There’s nothing I can do… you have to confess your feelings. And soon. Your lungs sound clear for now, but if you’re already coughing up petals…”

“There’s nothin’ else I can do?” Arthur said desperately.

“You’ll die if you don’t. There’s surgery, of course, but….” the doctor shook his head. “It would erase all the feelings you had for that person. I’ve never attempted it myself, you would have to go to Saint Denis.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. I don’t have to tell you, I guess. But once you start coughing up full blooms… you won’t last long.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. Arthur paid the doctor and left, riding back to camp slowly, his head down. His mind was racing. Why now? Why, after all these years? Who could it be? He had certainly loved Eliza and Mary, and losing them had hurt… but not in this way. Funny, to be dying for a person he didn’t even know. 

An idea struck him. If he could find out what kind of flowers they were, maybe he’d get a clue on who he seemed to be longing for. He turned Ranger around and rode to the outskirts of town, avoiding the house Mary and Jaime were staying at, and up to the cottage of a young couple who had a beautiful flower garden. He’d admired it the first time he’d seen it, and now, as he hoped, the wife was outside tending to her blossoms. He swung off Ranger, clutching the napkin of petals he’d coughed up at the doctor’s. 

“Howdy, ma’am,” he greeted her, stopping just outside her gate. “Uh, I noticed your garden and I wondered… uh, if you could help me.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and Arthur didn’t blame her - Valentine was a rough place with sketchy folks. “That depends, sir. What do you need?”

“Nothin’ much. Just… do you think you could tell me what flowers these are from?” he asked, holding out the napkin.

The young woman looked confused, but stood and went to the gate, taking the petals and studying them carefully. 

“Oh, these are poppy petals. What a gorgeous red! Did you grow the flower yourself?”

“Uh… kind of.”

“It’s beautiful. Poppies grow all over the world, you know, there’s a few out on the prairie I hope to transplant into my garden soon. If I’m not mistaken, this particular red grows in Scotland, normally, and was brought here by early settlers.”

“Scotland, huh?” Arthur gazed at the petals, something tugging at his mind. He dug in his satchel and held out a couple of dollars. “For your trouble, ma’am.”

“No trouble at all,” she said, refusing to take it. “But if you ever have some seeds to spare, remember me, okay?”

“I surely will,” Arthur tipped his hat to her and mounted Ranger. As he rode away, he bitterly thought that by the time he was spitting up flowers with seeds he’d be ready for the grave. 

—

A couple of weeks passed. Abigail was worried about John, who was coughing more steadily now, and tiny blue petals fluttered from his mouth when he did. Neither of them knew what to do, or how to go about approaching Arthur, who seemed preoccupied with a problem of his own. The others in camp were concerned with both John and Arthur’s persistent coughs, but as both men kept their petals so well-hidden, no one had put two and two together. And why would they think Hanahaki when there were so many other sicknesses going around? The flu and tuberculosis were severe this year. Arthur had gone to collect a debt from a man in Valentine named Downes only to arrive at Downes’ funeral, and he learned at the saloon that TB had been what had felled the man. 

Arthur considered himself lucky - well, kind of - to avoid TB. His chest already felt congested enough, and he couldn’t sleep laying down anymore. After a few days of Strauss’ whining about not being able to collect the debt he’d thrown some of his own money at the Austrian, telling him to consider Downes’ debt paid. He refused to go to a widow’s home and pester her in her time of grief for a measly $34. It wasn’t like the debt was $340 or $3400, the gang could get by without it. Hell, Arthur had sold three good deer pelts for as much just the other day. 

That problem solved, Arthur was back to contemplating his own sickness. He felt sure the red poppy petals were a clue, but he couldn’t figure out the significance. It wasn’t a rare color or anything he associated with someone specific. Hell, he could look around camp and see plenty of people wearing red at the moment - Susan, Karen, Uncle. Marston was wearing a red shirt. Dutch’s vest was red on the back. Hosea had on a red tie. 

“Aw, shit,” Arthur muttered to himself, rising from his cot and tucking his journal into his satchel. He walked over to Ranger and patted the big shire, gently combing out his mount’s mane. He saw John cross the camp and speak to Dutch in a low voice; what they were discussing Arthur found out soon enough.

“Arthur, my boy!” Dutch called to him, beckoning him over. “You aren’t planning on leaving camp today, are you? John told me he’s got a tip on a good robbery, I want you to go together.”

“Okay, Dutch,” Arthur said tiredly. He coughed again, managing to catch the petals before Dutch or John saw them.

“That’s a nasty cough, son. Are you taking anything for it?”

“Huh? Oh… yeah,” Arthur lied. Dutch raised an eyebrow but didn’t question any further, instead filling him in about a farmhouse north of Valentine. The owners were away for a wedding, the caretaker a drunkard. 

“It should be an easy job for you, boys,” Dutch said proudly, patting their shoulders. 

“Yeah. You ready to ride, Morgan?” John said with his lopsided grin.

“Might as well, huh? Get up there by dark, sooner than later.” Arthur felt a strange pang at John’s grin and returned it hesitantly. Dutch waved them off, and they mounted Ranger and Old Boy, riding out.

—

The house itself was quite handsome, set far back from the road. And it was silent as a cemetery, just as they’d expected. They’d seen the caretaker in the Valentine saloon, already shitfaced. 

“The Andersons are gonna be mad you ain’t watchin’ the house, Bob!” one patron had laughed. John and Arthur, sitting in a dim corner with shots of whiskey, were listening hard.

“Aw, ain’t nothin’ gonna happen,” Bob slurred. “The dog’ll watch the house.”

Arthur glanced at John, who nodded. They finished their shots and slipped outside, riding through the deepening twilight to the homestead. 

“You know about the dog?” Arthur asked once they were out of Valentine. “I ain’t lookin’ forward to getting my leg chewed off.”

“Already taken care of it,” John grinned. “Got some drugged sausages in my bag.”

“Good thinkin’. Where’d you hear about this?”

“Oh. Abigail and I came to town the other day to run an errand and we overheard some women gossiping about the wedding. A few men in the general store were talkin’ about it too. They mentioned the caretaker was a drunk.”

“Good work, Marston.” Arthur’s praise made John blush, and he looked away as a tickle rose in his throat. He managed not to cough, but spit out a few blue petals. 

They stopped in the trees surrounding the house, leaving the horses behind and pulling on their masks and gloves. As they neared the fence a sharp bark was heard, and a brown dog ran up to them. John tossed a sausage to it with a flick of his wrist, and the dog caught it neatly. Two more and it sank to the grass, snoring.

Tiptoeing around the house, the two men peeked carefully into the windows they passed. True to the rumors, the house was completely deserted. Arthur jimmied the back door open with a lock breaker he’d gotten from Trelawny. John whistled lowly.

“That’s a good trick, Morgan,” he whispered, admiringly. Arthur grinned at him and the tightness in John’s chest that he’d grown used to over the past few weeks seemed to loosen. 

“Silent and effective. And you don’t gotta worry about shrapnel from shootin’ the lock.” The outlaws crept inside, knives at the ready in case anyone else was in the house… but there was no one. 

“Split up,” Arthur murmured to John. “I’ll take the downstairs, you take the up. Anything that looks expensive. Whistle if there’s trouble.”

“Got it.” John shuffled away in a half-crouch, climbing the stairs slowly and keeping his ears trained for sounds. Nothing. Boy, the family must be real stupid to leave everything they owned in the care of a drunk. The first room he ducked into was a bedroom, probably belonging to the master and mistress of the house. And my lady had a passion for jewels, it seemed. John had no idea how one gemstone differed from another - they were just shiny rocks to him - but praise the good Lord, they looked expensive. A few necklaces, some pearl strands and matching earrings, a bracelet studded with emeralds, four or five rings. A nice big cache of jet mourning jewelry. All of it went into John’s bag, along with three sets of cufflinks and a handsome ascot pin from the husband’s drawers. 

Okay, next room. Another bedroom, not much in it. Sparse, just a primly made-up bed, a small dresser, a chair, and some sewing supplies. Probably a spinster aunt or the maid lived here. Nothing to steal except a gold-handled pair of shears, which John wrapped in a piece of red cloth before stuffing in his bag.

The next room was a child’s, and John passed over it quickly, though a little jealously. He’d never had a room like this growing up, or so many toys. And neither did his boy. But as angry as that made him, John shut the door and moved into the last room. One final bedroom, converted into an office of sorts. John’s eyes immediately went to the safe in the corner. Oh, he hated those things, he’d never quite mastered the slow process of ferreting out the combinations and listening for the tumbler clicks. But dynamite was hardly an option here.

“Arthur?” he called, pitching his voice low.

“Yeah?” he could hear footsteps on the stairs.

“There’s a safe. Think you can get it open?”

“Let me take a look.” Arthur appeared at his side silently; it was amazing how such a big man could avoid making any noise. He set down his sack and knelt in front of the safe. John knelt beside him, both of them holding their breaths as Arthur slowly turned the dial.

Click. “One,” Arthur whispered, putting up a finger. 

Click. “Two.”

A long pause as Arthur turned it some more. “Three,” he finally whispered, and the door swung open to reveal cash, bonds, more jewelry, and what looked like a tiny gold baby. Or maybe it was a frog. It sure was ugly, whatever it was, but a fence could melt it down. All of this the pair of thieves swiped, stuffing their sacks full. In Arthur’s John could see candlesticks, silverware, and…

“Another gold baby?” he hissed. “How many of these they got?”

“Dunno. Ugly as sin, ain’t they?” Arthur laughed. “Looks like we got a good haul here. Good job.” His big hand clapped John on the back and in the glow of success, John decided to confess.

“Listen, Arthur, I… I gotta tell you someth-“

Downstairs, a door crashed open. The outlaws froze. 

“Awww you good fer nothin dog!” the drunken caretaker could be heard slurring. “Asleep. I oughta… oughta put you down.”

“Shit!” John could hear the man mounting the stairs, and cast a panicked look at Arthur. The older man stayed calm, beckoning him to the window. It swung open easily, and Arthur climbed out onto the porch roof. John followed, and the ugly baby took that minute to slide out of his sack and hit the floor with a loud THUNK.

“Who’s up there?!” The footsteps quickened, and the pair might’ve been caught if the caretaker hadn’t tripped drunkenly and slid back down half the staircase, giving them plenty of time to slip off the porch roof and flee into the trees, where Ranger and Old Boy awaited them. Spurring the horses into a gallop, the two men fled the scene, and started laughing as soon as they were out of earshot. They traveled in a long, twisting path before doubling back to an abandoned cabin Arthur knew about. Inside, they got a fire going and eagerly poured over their haul.

“Dutch will be happy about this,” Arthur said, as they combed through the valuables. “Shit, look at all this jewelry!”

“And this is only what the missus left behind,” John gloated. “Imagine what she must be wearin’ to the wedding itself!” He pocketed a pretty turquoise brooch to give to Abigail, she’d really been supportive. He found the cloth-wrapped shears and shook them out with a grin. “Y’think Miss Grimshaw’ll be a little less sour if I give her some new sewin’ scissors?” he asked, flushed with success. The red cotton he’d wrapped them in was nice, he folded it up into a strip and tied it around his neck - decent for hiding the old noose scar from when he was a child. “How do I look?”

Arthur glanced up from studying a malachite fountain pen to see the red cloth against John’s skin. Something twisted inside him. That red. It was the same color - he began to cough, turning away from John in an attempt to hide it, but the red petals kept coming. Not just petals, anymore, either, but full poppy blooms, he realized in horror.

“Arthur!” John pounded his back, but drew away when he saw the red poppies on the floor. He stared at them dumbly. It couldn’t be….

“Get away,” Arthur said harshly, trying to breathe. The cloth. The petals. That red shirt John wore at camp - all the same color. Marston. It was Marston? He couldn’t think straight, and lashed out. “Get away, I said!”

John backed away, his heart plummeting to his shoes. Arthur had Hanahaki too? Who did he long for…?

Suddenly, it clicked. Mary. _Goddamned Mary Linton._ He remembered Mary-Beth saying that Arthur had gotten a letter from Mary recently and ended up lending her a hand… and now he had Hanahaki. All for a foolish woman who followed her family’s wishes and refused to see how special Arthur really was. Oh Marston, he berated himself. What made you stupid enough to hope she was out of his life forever?

He couldn’t stay there. He bolted. Arthur’s head jerked up. “John!” But John didn’t stop running, running like he had four years ago when he’d fled blindly from Abigail’s pregnancy and the family he was sure he’d disappointed. 

“John, get back here!” Arthur bellowed, then coughed up another gout of petals. Ignoring them, he took off into the night. “JOHN!”

“Leave me be!” he heard John’s raspy voice up ahead, followed by an explosion of coughs. Tiny blue petals and flowers drifted back to Arthur on the breeze. 

“John, please!” Arthur was growing panicked now. “Talk to me!”

More tiny flowers. Arthur stooped to pick some up. They didn’t look like any he’d seen in the area before.

“John?” he called.

“I’m here,” came the sullen response, and Arthur found his friend slumped against a tree. A scattering of blue flowers lay on and around his boots. As Arthur approached, John coughed again, not bothering to hide the flowers. He refused to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“John… you’ve got Hanahaki too?”

“Yeah.”

“You… you gotta go back to camp, tell Abigail you really do love-” Arthur tried desperately.

“It ain’t Abigail!” John said harshly. “And there ain’t no cure for me. I’m gonna die. Just… keep an eye on Abby and Jack for me, okay?”

“John, you ain’t gonna die!” Arthur’s thoughts were whirling. The red shirt. The poppies from Scotland… Scotland, where John’s father had been from. “You just-”

“Yeah, go ahead and tell me what I just gotta do! It ain’t gonna make a difference! He don’t love me. Now go back to Mary and get yourself fixed up!”

He? Mary? Arthur grabbed John’s arm. “Mary? What nonsense you spoutin’ now, Marston?”

“Mary-Beth told me you’d seen her again. You’ve been coughing ever since! Don’t be a fool, go with her! You’re too good for this life anyway. You deserve a home, a family!”

“I have a family! It’s all of you! And home is where you all are!” Arthur argued. “I been coughing long before seein’ her again, I been coughing since Colt-” 

_Colter._ John laying in the snow, a half-smile on his face, only able to relax when he knew Arthur and Javier were there to bring him back. John laying in a makeshift bed, bandaged and unconscious, unaware of Arthur sitting beside him. Arthur himself coughing into his fist, ignoring it, too concerned with keeping John alive and helping Dutch get revenge on the O’Driscolls to care. Touching John’s hand when no one else was there, remembering the good times. Remembering how sad he’d been when John ran away, how happy he’d been when he’d returned. Not just happy. Overjoyed. 

“Since Colter,” he finished, his voice gentler now. “When I thought we… I… might lose you.”

John finally looked up at him, hope in his eyes. 

“And you… you were too.” Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest. “You were too. John, you… do you?”

“Yeah,” John whispered. “Yeah. I love you, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur reached for him, pulling John into his arms, hugging him tightly. “I love you too, John Marston,” he confessed. 

It was like a weight off both their chests. They could practically feel the disease going away, the flowers inside themselves withering. John hugged Arthur back just as tightly, breathing in his scent, never wanting to let go. He looked into Arthur’s crystal-blue eyes. God, he could drown in them. And Arthur was already leaning down to brush their lips together. It was like an electric shock through their bodies. John closed his eyes and kissed back, clinging to Arthur, whose own grip tightened. 

They finally had to stop for air, panting softly and just staring into each other’s eyes. How long they stood there neither of them knew. John hated to let go, but it was getting very late and cold.

“Let’s get back,” Arthur murmured finally. He was loathe to leave the embrace as well, but there’d be plenty of time later on. He bent and picked up some of the blue blossoms John had coughed up, tucking them into his handkerchief. “What are these?”

“Dunno. Abby said I should ask you.” John took Arthur’s hand and they returned to the cabin. “You got no idea?”

“Naw. But I know someone who might.” They reentered the cabin to find their loot where they’d left it, and carefully packed it back up. “You hungry?” Arthur asked. 

“A little. Mostly just tired, though.” John yawned. 

“Me too. C’mon, let’s get some sleep.”

They laid out their bedrolls and lay close together, John welcomed again into Arthur’s arms. 

“Are we a couple of fools, Marston?” Arthur sighed.

“Seems like it.” John was happy to rest his head on Arthur’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“Nearly dyin’ and not realizin’ we were smack in front of each other the whole time.”

“Hey. I figured out it was you a long time ago. I just thought you’d hate me if I told you.”

“Hate you?” Arthur sounded offended. “Johnny, sometimes you irritate the shit out of me, but I could never hate you.”

A soft chuckle. “Good. You’re stuck with me now anyway.”

“You’re a pest. Go to sleep now, we’ll get this loot back to Dutch nice and early.”

—

A week later John and Arthur rode back up to Valentine, heading for a small cottage at the rear of town. Just like before, the young woman was outside tending to her flowers. She looked up at the sound of hooves and smiled when she recognized Arthur. 

“Hello again! How are you?”

“I’m doin’ quite well, ma’am,” Arthur said. He handed her a packet of poppy seeds. “These ain’t exactly what you’re looking for, but they’re as close as I can find. Turns out that poppy I showed you… well ma’am, it was one of a kind.”

“It was still very sweet of you to think of me,” she said. 

“Can I ask one more favor?” Arthur held out the tiny blue blossoms he’d saved. A blue, he’d noticed, that matched his eyes and his favorite shirt. “Do you know what these are?”

“Oh, that’s brunnera!” the young woman said. “Look, see, I have some growing right over here.”

It had heart-shaped leaves. Arthur smiled at it. “Why, that’s awful pretty.” He looked over at his companion. “Ain’t it, John?”

“It is.” John smiled too. 

Arthur tipped his hat to the young woman. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for the seeds. You know, brunnera seems to suit you well, sir.”

“So I’ve been told,” Arthur said, winking at John.

**Author's Note:**

> And they all lived happily ever after, escaped to Tahiti and started a ranch/mango farm, and no one died, except Micah who fell off the boat and got eaten by a shark.
> 
> Cough “medicines” in the 1800’s were basically hard drugs in a bottle, as I’m sure you know. “One-Night Cough Syrup” was made with alcohol, cannabis indica (marijuana), chloroform, and morphia (morphine). Heroin was pretty popular too. Yeah, Arthur, it sure does make you sleepy, huh?!
> 
> _Brunnera macrophylla:_ Just like John said, a pretty blue flower the color of Arthur’s favorite (default) shirt. The bush it grows on has heart-shaped leaves, so I thought it’d be a perfect Hanahaki flower.
> 
> _Cytisus scoparius (Poppy)_: Poppies do grow all over the world, but the color isn’t actually affected by its area. I just made that up for obvious reasons. XD 


End file.
